


The Reasons

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: First Meetings, Fluff, Headaches & Migraines, Height Kink, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:31:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Michael thinks about the first time he ever met James. Mostly about James being a comparatively tiny person, Michael being hopelessly in love, and Michael completely failing to not overreact when, in the present day, James--who's only been his actual boyfriend for two amazing, spectacular, unbelievable weeks--admits to having a headache, on set...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reasons

**Author's Note:**

> Title and opening lines courtesy of The Weakerthans’ “The Reasons”.

_and I know_   
_you might roll your eyes at this_   
_but I’m so_   
_glad that you exist_

 

Michael had never thought of himself as the sort of person who fell in love at first sight. Hell, he’d never thought of himself as knowing anything about falling in love—real love—at all.

All of those thoughts, preconceived notions about love and himself and never really understanding how those two nouns connected, those thoughts had leapt right out the window and flown off into the unseeable distance, the minute he’d met James.

At the moment, watching James bounce around today’s film set, on the grounds of the rather impressive Xavier mansion stand-in, enthusiastic and excited and happy to see every single person who waved hello, he couldn’t help remembering that first encounter, during _Band of Brothers_ , all those years ago.

He’d been watching James then, too. From a distance, and not creepily, or hopefully not creepily. They’d somehow never quite had a conversation, despite having had to be on set at the same time for three days running, because one or the other of them always had some intervening scene to work on, never together, and Michael had discovered within the first five minutes of the first day that he had an unhealthy obsession with improbably blue eyes and untamable hair.

He hadn’t realized how short James actually was, not yet, because during most of his breaks he’d just been watching James run around and fling himself into action. James had enough energy for at least three people, and that plus all the hair combined to make him mesmerizingly _present_ , and Michael had been captivated, and had decided on the spot that mischievous auburn hair and ocean-colored eyes had to be requirements for his ideal fantasy person.

He still hadn’t quite been in love with James, though. Lust, maybe. Or definitely, after certain very detailed, and, unfortunately, only speculative, dreams.

Love had taken a bit longer. To be precise, had taken exactly the length of their first conversation.

They had, miraculously, finally had breaks scheduled at the same time, though Michael hadn’t realized that at first; he’d just been a little sad that he couldn’t find James to gaze at, while waiting to be summoned back in front of the camera.

And then curious fingers had tapped him on the shoulder. “So I don’t think we’ve met yet, unless maybe we have and I forgot, but I’m pretty certain I would’ve remembered meeting you, but maybe that’s why you’ve been watching me, because we _have_ met before and you wanted to say hello, in which case I’m sorry I forgot, and also I brought you coffee, because you sort of looked cold and there was a long line and I was already there anyway, so. Here.” And Michael had found himself clutching a steaming paper cup full of scalding liquid and gazing down at brilliant blue eyes and a smile that could melt every iceberg in the world into helpless puddles.

Gazing very _far_ down at those eyes, actually. James barely came up to his shoulder, even with all the hair.

And Michael’d never even considered height, or lack thereof, as a turn-on, but all at once he’d found himself thinking utterly obscene things about how easy it would be to pick James up and toss him into bed, and how small James would feel underneath him, small but not fragile, some sort of tantalizing paradox, broad shoulders and obvious muscle defying that compact stature, or possibly they’d not even make it to bed, because he could just hold James up against a wall and—oh, god, he needed to stop thinking these things right the hell now.

James had said, “Hi, I’m—” and Michael’d said “Oh holy fuck I could fit you into my _pocket_ ,” and then had wanted to bite his own tongue in half.

But James, instead of punching him in the face or retreating warily from the clearly insane person, had just started laughing. “Oh, that might be fun! You could do all the work, and I could just let you carry me around.”

“Well, those are very short legs. I wouldn’t want them to get tired.” That was definitely his voice, but the words were turning up of their own accord. But at least James hadn’t run away from him yet.

“Hmm.” James had looked up at him thoughtfully. “Of course, I’ve only just met you. I’ve no idea what else you keep in your pockets. For all I know, you’ve got a small army of miniature people in there. Lost civilizations. Secret tribes.”

“Don’t worry,” Michael had retorted, “you are the only person to whom I’ve ever offered my pockets as a mode of transportation,” and James had laughed again, bright as the sunlight, where it’d snuck in through the late-morning clouds and was making airborne gold out of flying bits of dust.

“Excellent, then. I feel absolutely special.”

And it’d taken all of Michael’s heretofore largely unrecognized reservoirs of self-control not to reply, honestly, “You _are_.”

He’d said, “If I’m going to be carrying you around in my pockets, we should probably introduce ourselves, so, Michael Fassbender,” and James had promptly said, “Hello, Michael Fassbender, I’m James McAvoy, and, by the way, thank you, it does help to know that we haven’t met before,” and Michael had said, “What?” which had made James laugh again.

“Sorry! I just meant, I usually try to remember everyone’s names, and you kept looking at me, and it was really starting to bother me, because I thought I ought to know who you were and I didn’t but I wanted to. Did that make sense? Because I sort of lost track of that sentence. It had a mind of its own.”

“Um…”

“Oh…sorry.” And James had grinned at him, across his own coffee cup, and Michael had wanted to kiss him, right there, in front of the cameras and the crew and the interestedly watching sunbeams.

James had paused, in the middle of all the words, for a sip of coffee. Automatically, Michael had copied the motion. Of course it was terrible instant coffee, and still too hot, as if someone’d hoped that the temperature might disguise the taste, but James had brought it over for him, because he’d thought that Michael, a person he’d never met, had looked cold.

And right then, between the flavor of bitter coffee on his tongue and James’s alarmingly endless sentences and the pleased glint of sapphire eyes when he’d taken the sip, Michael had learned exactly what it meant to fall in love.

In the present day, here and now, James looked up, across the expanse of camera-perfect green lawn, as if hearing the drift of Michael's thoughts, and grinned, through the wind that tugged at his shirt and shoved all that hair into his eyes. Michael waved; James said something to Rose, probably goodbye, and then sprinted across the grass toward him.

Predictably, James was already talking by the time they met, half-obscured by the grumbling yelps of the wind. “—you finished early! I meant to come inside and surprise you! Possibly in the bed.”

“I don’t think we’re allowed to have sex in the bed. They need that bed for filming.” Not that he’d mind. He’d happily have sex with James more or less anywhere, including, on one memorable occasion, Matthew’s directorial golf cart.

He got to have sex with James. Still amazing. Always would be.

Even if he could never say the word _love_.

It’d been two weeks, he thought, looking down at the brilliance of that smile. Two fantastic weeks, since James had looked at him, speculatively, both of them dripping wet from repeated dives into the ocean, wrapped up in blankets and the satisfaction of a perfect scene, hair sticking to James’s face in clumps, and Michael’d reached out to push it away from his mouth and James had smiled and those lips had tasted like salt and ocean water and joy when he’d kissed them.

They’d fallen into James’s bed first, and then into the shower because James had been shivering, and then had run across the hall to sleep in Michael’s bed because James’s sheets were covered in ocean-water residue, among other things, by then.

James had smiled at him, again, in the morning, and then hopped out of bed and run back to his room to find clothing, and then had come _back_ to Michael’s room to get dressed and consume three cups of coffee in rapid succession while Michael was still trying to process what had just happened, the night before.

James had held his hand, in the car, on the way to the film set. And then again, casually, after lunch, while they’d been walking back between all the trailers and equipment, in full view of the cast and the crew. As if the touch were no big deal, as if it wasn’t enough to flip Michael’s entire world around and sideways for good measure.

Maybe it _wasn’t_ a big deal, to James. They enjoyed each other, enjoyed being with each other, and James was a naturally affectionate person. James liked touching people. And if James, miraculously, liked touching _Michael_ , then Michael would take it. Whatever he could have. Whatever James wanted to give.

Only two weeks, he thought again. Just fun. Purely casual. They’d never even had that conversation, none of those words, no definitions for what they were to each other. James had never brought it up. And Michael wanted, needed, to keep touching James, for as long as he could; that was a simple truth, a fact of his existence, these days.

So he could keep all his too-involved feelings to himself. He’d had a lot of practice, by now, after all.

But his heart leapt anyway, absurdly happy, when James took his hand, when their shoulders brushed, companionably, as they fell into step. The wind muttered at them, begrudgingly cheerful too.

“All right, no sex in the bed. At least not until you’re done with those scenes. How’d it go?”

“Good. Easy. Kind of fun. I’d never met Rebecca Romijn before. She’s very nice.”

“And very naked in your bed. I’m not sure I approve.”

“It’s Erik’s bed, and Erik isn’t having sex with anyone. Too busy trying to wreak vengeance on the world.”

“Whereas you enjoy having all the sex.”

“James,” Michael pointed out, “I enjoy having all the sex with _you_ ,” and James laughed. “Good?”

“Very good. Which I thought I told you two nights ago. Repeatedly. Um…you are coming over, tonight, right? After we’re finished?”

“Yes, if you want.” There was an odd note in that luxurious voice, he thought. Something not entirely right. But he couldn’t quite place it.

“Of course I want. I want you.” He squeezed the hand, in his. “All right?”

And the smile came back, curving up into those sky-colored eyes like sunlight. “All right.”

“So…all right, then. Lunch?”

“Actually…” James paused to avoid a flying intern, sprinting in the direction of Kevin’s trailer with a miniature mountain of food. “Was she seriously holding a coconut…? No, never mind, I don’t want to know. About lunch…you can go ahead without me, I’m not…I think I’m just going to go back to my trailer until they need us, all right?”

“I think she might’ve been, and no. Not all right. What’s wrong?”

“I’m just not very hungry, really. It’s fine.”

Michael stopped walking. Put out a hand and stopped James from walking, too. Left the hand where it was, resting on one muscular shoulder, inches below his. He’d heard the hesitation, the deflection, in that expressive voice, buried under layers of velvet-rough accent and genuine warmth.

He looked down, at those eyes. Noticed, suddenly, the cracks of tension around all the glorious blue, the effort in the ever-ready smile, when James caught him looking. “Like what you see?”

“Always. You know that. But you—are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“James…” He knew he shouldn’t push. Didn’t have the right. Two weeks, he thought again. As of the day before, in fact. Two incredible, spectacular weeks, the best weeks of Michael’s life, so far, but still. Too soon. He shouldn’t ask for, shouldn’t want, anything more.

But James had to be all right. He couldn’t imagine any other answer. Couldn’t imagine existence without those eyes, that laugh, somewhere, completing the world. Completing him.

“Please tell me.”

James gazed up at him, thoughtfully. Then reached up and put his own hand over Michael’s, on his shoulder. “All right, if you want to know. But it’s not anything important. I just kind of have a headache.”

Bad enough to keep James from wanting to eat? To make him go back to his trailer alone? “When you say headache…”

“I mean my head feels like it very much wants to explode.” James started walking again, not letting go of Michael’s hand, so that Michael was forced to follow. He would’ve anyway. “I think it’s from the wind. Or because I didn’t sleep very well, last night. Or all the fumes from the fire-extinguisher scene, earlier. Or just everything.”

“I’m sorry. Can I help?” He hadn’t slept that well, either. He’d been trying so hard not to be too demanding, not to exert any pressure, not to stay over in James’s room or invite James to his every single night, and they’d both been sand-covered and exhausted after all the beach scenes that they’d finally finished, moving on to the next location, and when he’d said “We maybe should take the night off, tonight…” James had glanced away, and nodded, and agreed.

But he’d woken up too many times to count, missing compact warmth and enthusiastic hair and freckled skin beside him. The bed had felt too large, and too empty, for comfort. It, and he, hadn’t really wanted to be alone.

“Probably not, no.” Right. He’d asked a question. And James was answering him. “I think I just want to not move for a while. Someplace quiet.”

“So we’re going back to your trailer, then.”

“You don’t have to—”

“We’re going back to your trailer, then.”

James glanced up, at his face. Made an expression halfway between amusement and annoyance, which on anyone else would’ve been unattractive but on James only looked adorable.

Of course, every expression, on James, looked adorable. Not that Michael was biased. Not at all.

They made it across the intervening distance without incident; once inside, out of the nagging gusts of the wind, James flopped onto the couch, and shut his eyes. The faded cushions accepted the weight, uncomplainingly.

“James?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I…do you need…what do you need?” Something. Anything. Whatever he could do to help. James looked far too tiny, and fragile, surrounded by all the worn-out pillows. Even the hair spilled limply over the tired fabric, when James tipped his head back.

“Um…aspirin? I think there’s some over there. By the coffeemaker…”

He found the bottle, after several petrified seconds of searching. Half-empty. Why was it half-empty? Had James been taking painkillers, without anyone knowing? Without Michael knowing? Why was James taking painkillers?

“Here. Also…water? Or do you want coffee? I can make you coffee. With raspberry syrup in it if you want that. And whipped cream.” James got excited about raspberries and sugar and unnatural flavorings of every description in his coffee; he had to say yes to that, right? Had to still want those things?

Michael wasn’t certain that they even had whipped cream, though there was very likely some in James’s miniature refrigerator, but he’d find a way to acquire it in a heartbeat if James said yes.

“Thanks for those….Water’s fine; I think it’s too warm for coffee. And I’m honestly not hungry, so. Thank you again, but you don’t have to.” James swallowed, without opening his eyes. Put his head back on the couch again. “You could go to lunch, if you wanted. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” James was not fine. The glare, from the uncompromising overhead lights, flirted with all the freckles on one eloquent arm, inviting them out to play. The freckles, and the arm, refused to move.

James never got sick. Never admitted to being sick, or hurt, or in pain. But James was in pain now. Outside, clouds covered up the sun, and crushed away the beams of light into sudden haze.

Michael stood there, abruptly awkward and too tall for the once-cozy trailer, hovering next to the dilapidated couch and James’s silent form, and opened his mouth, and closed it again. Felt his hands shake.

It had to be something serious. James would never have said anything, otherwise. But he _had_ said something. He’d admitted it to Michael. And hadn’t moved since accepting the offered water.

What if it _was_ serious? What if this was something James didn’t want to talk about, hadn’t meant to tell him? Something that Michael couldn’t fix with aspirin, or coffee, or a smile?

James hadn’t even wanted the coffee, he thought, helplessly. Migraines? Or an actual injury, wounds he hadn’t noticed? James had been in the bunker with all the fire, that morning; what if something’d gone badly? Or, oh god, something even worse, something medically wrong, and what if James had some kind of brain tumor, or cancer, or was about to have an aneurysm?

James’d continued not to move, and the prefabricated walls of the trailer felt too confining, around them. Stifling. He couldn’t find enough air. Was James still breathing?

He tried to whisper that familiar name again. The sound that came out was marginally audible, and barely human. James, eyes still shut, made an inquisitive noise, and Michael said, desperately, “Please don’t die,” and then clapped a hand over his own mouth, too belatedly for the clichéd reaction to do any good.

James opened his eyes, at that. Of course. “What?”

“Um…I…”

“Did you just say—”

“No?”

James looked at him for a minute, far too calmly to offer any useful comfort to Michael’s panicking heart. The blueness of those eyes, the ocean under golden sun, hadn’t changed. Despite the presence of unusual weariness, that suggested lingering pain. “Come here? Please?”

He sat down, gingerly, on the edge of the stoically comfortable couch. Afraid to touch, or to intrude, any closer.

James sighed, but there was affection lurking in the sound. “I meant really come here. Hold me.”

“Oh.”

Slowly, the world settled itself again, with the sensation of James in his arms. Even the looming walls took a breath, and expanded, and shook themselves back into place. Everything where it ought to be. In this moment. For now.

“It’s honestly just a headache,” James said, into his shoulder. “I promise.”

“You never get headaches.”

“Yes, I do. I just don’t tell anyone, when I do. But this…” James tipped his head up; those summer-shaded eyes, blue sky in sunshine, captured Michael’s own. “That’s why this is good. Us, I mean. We’re good. Because I _can_ tell you, when I’m feeling…less than fantastic. Even if it’s a stupid tiny thing, like a headache. And you can tell me anything, too. I love that. I love—having that, with you. Does that help?”

“Yes…”

“Well, then. You don’t have to worry. Or at least not quite so much. I don’t mind if you want to worry a little, if it means I can talk you into buying me ice cream after we get done.”

“…you want me to buy you ice cream?”

“We’re both missing lunch. And pistachio ice cream magically cures headaches, you know. Medical fact.”

“James, I love you.” Oh god. The words had just been right there. On the tip of his tongue. He could no more have stopped them than he could’ve stopped his heart from beating. Which might be a concern, considering the current astonished quiet.

Even the wind stopped howling, out of ghoulish curiosity.

James nestled more securely into his arms. Murmured, half-obscured by a shoulder and a fold of fabric, “About time you told me.”

Michael stared at the top of his head, at the waves of unruly hair that invited fingertips and exploration. Couldn’t talk.

James lifted his head. Raised expressive eyebrows. “What, you thought that was a surprise? I know you love me. I love you, too. I always thought you knew; I almost said it out loud, just now. I just wasn’t sure you’d—I thought you might think it was too soon. So I didn’t say it. But I do.”

“You—you what?” Too many emotions, all jostling for space. He was amazed he could still find words, through all the chaos. “You don’t—since when?”

“Oh…since the first day we met, pretty much. When I brought you coffee and we talked about you fitting me into your pocket, and you _didn’t_ decide I was incapable of rational conversation after two sentences. You do remember that.”

“I’m always going to remember that. I’ve never forgotten that. You have no idea how many of my fantasies involved me picking you up and carrying you to bed, after that. And also I love you and your irrational conversations.” James was still smiling, and Michael was starting to think that it might be real, now. That James was here, in his arms, and not dying of some terrible disease, and that he might be allowed to say these things.

“Really?” The blue eyes now looked intrigued. “Because I might like that. The you picking me up, I mean. We could try that. We’re already on the couch, but I could stand up and you could—”

“Oh god yes—I mean no—I mean not now!”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re—how are you, anyway? You did say you were in pain…” He ran a hand through all the beckoning hair, because it wanted him to. James made a contented sound, eyes closing.

“I think it’s getting better. You feel good. And I love you, too.”

“Later,” Michael told him, “I’m definitely going to have plans for you, later,” and then tightened the embrace and tugged James closer, more or less onto his lap. James did not protest this change of position; Michael kissed him, gently, and felt the answering smile, against his lips. “So you love me. And I love you.”

“And I love you having plans, for later. Do your plans involve my ice cream, at all?”

They did now. “Yes. James?”

“If this is about the aspirin, it’s half-empty because I’ve had it for ages, not for any other reason, I promise.”

“How—”

“I saw your expression when you found the bottle. Better?”

“Yes. Why pistachio?”

“My grandmother used to buy it, and I like it.” The wind purred, returning, around the cracks and crevices of the trailer. And James felt warm, and safe, and happy, in his arms.

“I never knew that.”

“And I never expected you to panic over me getting a headache, either. So we’re both learning. Fair enough?”

“Yes,” Michael said again, and kissed him, because those blue eyes were sparkling at him from inches away, and he could barely see the pain now, receding into the distance. “James?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you, and I’m still glad you’re not going to die,” Michael told him, truthfully, and James burst out laughing, curled up on Michael’s lap in the friendly space of ancient couch cushions and humming wind, and said, “I love you always, and me too.”


End file.
